


You and She

by exhibits_no_restraint



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Freeform, POV Second Person, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11978832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exhibits_no_restraint/pseuds/exhibits_no_restraint
Summary: A look into Sherlock's complex relationship with women





	You and She

You’re five and you’ve fallen. Your knee is scraped and it hurts so terribly you can hardly stand it, but Mycroft would laugh if you cried. You sit on the ground, your lips quivering. She comes. She picks you up off the ground, carries you to the bathroom. She bandages your scrape and tells you in soothing tones that she sent Mycroft to the corner store for some milk. She tells you that his maximum pace is about 3 kilometers per hour, and it's a half kilometer both ways. She tells you that wait times at the store are at minimum five minutes. As she wipes the excess antiseptic oh-so-carefully from around the bandage, she tells you that she has a matter to attend to in the garden. She kisses your forehead, tells you she loves you, and leaves you sitting on the bathroom counter with a secret smile on her face. As you hear her footsteps echo down the stairs, you cry.

 

You’re ten. Your mother is dead. And you have to go to boarding school. You hate it there, but you hate it everywhere. None of your classmates understand you. To occupy your time you try to see how many of your teacher’s items you can acquire before they notice. Miss Hillbottom notices (you still have much learning to do, after all). To your surprise, she doesn’t humiliate you to your classmates. Instead, she asks you to stay behind while the rest of the class has free period. She tells you that she’s not angry. She says she knows you’re a good boy and that you’ll return the things you’ve taken. She produces a book on sleight of hand.  She says that in return for her things staying where she likes them, she will let you read during her class, as long as your marks don’t suffer. You agree.

 

You’re fifteen and you hear the story of a lonely girl about your age who commits a murder. It’s something you’ve considered before. Murder. You know you could. You want to know what it was like, murdering someone, so you write her. But you know that the inner workings of a murder is not the topic of polite conversation. You figure you will ask in your second letter. But when she responds, she is empathetic in her denial of the crime. You keep writing her. She teaches you that death can be beautiful. You do not know if you love her. You know she murdered someone. You continue to write.

 

You’re twenty when you have your first sexual encounter. You’re drunk and so is she. You bet her that you can tell her something that no one else knows about her. She’s quite beautiful. She tells you that she’s an open book. There’s nothing about her that no one knows. You lean down and whisper ever so gently into her ear, the pounding music and flashing lights threatening to overwhelm your senses. When you look into her eyes, they’re wide with wonder. She kisses you, and leads you to an upstairs bedroom. You learn you’re not the only one aching to be understood.

 

You’re twenty-five and you are a detective. Women fall into four categories: murderers, witnesses, victims, and bedfellows. She walks out the door and you notice her shoulders are hunched. Perhaps she had wanted to be invited to stay for breakfast. You note not to call her again.

 

You’re thirty and your brother is engaged. When you meet the woman, she practically reeks of deceit. You go about seducing her. It is too easy for a woman who professes to love your brother. Though she is beautiful, in a sharp, harsh way, you can hardly stand to consummate the act, knowing what she is. You make sure to be caught the first time.

 

You’re thirty-five when you meet Her. She’s an art forger. You think this might be it. This might really be love. She’s a shifting paradigm in a world of people who, to you, are absolute constants. You wonder if this is what a mathematician feels like when he encounters a truly compelling equation. You wonder how he ever stops working on it. She is brilliant in a way that is both compelling and overwhelming. At night when She’s asleep, you look at Her and wonder how you can be so close to such a bright fire and not get burned. You sleep soundly.

 

You’re thirty-five and She is dead. She has been murdered and you feel the world closing in. The brightness of the day, which once seemed to emanate hope, now grates on your sensitive senses. You have to make it go away. You have to make it stop. You have to find Her killer. You have to do something.

 

You’re thirty-seven. You are finally out of rehab. And she shows up. You are testing your concentration, you had worried that your stint had somehow made you dumber, duller, more like your surroundings. When you hear her approach, you try to ignore it. You do not need a baby sitter. But when she speaks you realize that ignoring her won’t work. You pause the televisions. You turn around to see her. The words that come out of your mouth are not the brusque, rude ones you had planned. Rather, to your surprise, you hear from your lips the romantic monologue from one of the clips you had been watching. She looks stunned. To cover your arse you rewind the clip and play it back. She looks annoyed. Later you wonder why you didn’t choose the man ranting about having an intruder in his home.

 

You’re thirty-seven. She has been returned to you. She has been hurt, but She is okay. You are a detective. You are not a comforter. You vow that, for Her, that will change. You will be what She needs you to be. You do not investigate who hurt Her.

 

You’re thirty-seven. She is not Her. She is a murderer. You wonder why you are drawn to broken women.

 

You’re thirty-eight. She stays. She is your partner. You wonder if you will break her too. You leave.

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do y'all think? I did this instead of homework or any of my other fics. Oops.   
> Feedback is always appreciated.


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